


Ad Libitum

by immortalbears



Series: One Shots and Standalones [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Washington, Canon Compliant, Coming Inside, M/M, Multiple Pairings, POV Multiple, Post-Season/Series 13, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalbears/pseuds/immortalbears
Summary: so I will lie beside you here
unnamed
until my hands recover from your skin

a history of tides
a flock of birds
the love that answers love

    when bodies meet
  
-John Burnside, De Humani Corporis FabricaIn case you haven't realised from the tags, it'll have canon Lolix in there.Told in four parts, this story explores the meaning of one sexual act for three very different people -- Locus, Felix, and Agent Washington. RVB14 compliant.





	1. Agent Washington / Moderato

> _so I will lie beside you here_  
>  _unnamed_  
>  _until my hands recover from your skin_  
>    
>  _a history of tides_  
>  _a flock of birds_  
>  _the love that answers love  
>  _ _when bodies meet_

-John Burnside, _De Humani Corporis Fabrica_

 

  1. Agent Washington / _Moderato_




He wishes he was somebody else.

Yet, inexplicably, like little blocks of fabric and the strands are woven together, time and space boxes him in, until he finds himself, looking exactly at the minutes of the clock that he’s facing, at the white walls of that apartment. He rocks his body according to the rhythm of the clock, the silence of the room as loud as the magnified ticks of the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes, every weekend, on the same hour, the same day.

They make small but sure repetitions of movement, and they take small and controlled breaths. Now and again there resounds a moan, but only when one of them begins to lose control.

Then, almost as if sensing that the other would like to stop, to rein himself in, one party would slow down, looking dead at the other in the eye, watching like a clairvoyant studies tea leaves. He watches the rise and fall of the other’s chest, corresponding with the tick of the clock. Silent as a cat’s thread, except for the wet slick sounds and the rocking of the bed.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and he stops, shuddering, letting his eyes close for a moment.

It is impossible to think that there is somebody else who would lose himself in him. He pretends he was somebody else, his vision dark, and he is certain that perhaps the other man is thinking of him as somebody else, too. Whether he leads or follows, it makes little difference. There is no escaping himself.

The other man takes him, but rather, in the fullest sense of the word, is taken by him. He loves the feeling of keeping the other man inside him, until he bucks and wiggles, and the controlled repetitions are broken and he lets him pull out, eventually.

Gentle, the other man reaches for him. He lets himself fall down into the warmth of the sheets.

Though the touch feels as if it burns him, he lets the other man’s arm rest on him. He feels whole, solid, an ineluctable modality of touch: at least that, if no more, felt through their fingertips.

“I saw you mouth his name.”

“Really?” He genuinely doesn’t know. Nor does he think it should matter. If they truly wanted to make an issue of it, he would have more to go with. He doesn’t see the point of it, at all. “Well, are _you_ over him?”

“I am.” That deep voice’s response is clipped and certain, unwavering. It speaks like it declares.

They fall quiet.

“Washington.”

“Yes, Locus?” He asks.

“I just wanted to say that I will be here for you, until you forget him.”

“Right.” He pauses, weighing his response. He senses, in a way, that neither of them can live with themselves, and that Felix was the lucky one to have died. He looks into Locus’ eyes, and sees that he means what he says.

 _And if I never do?_ He wonders, quietly, but Locus’ hand is on his, unmoving. He thinks, unsure if he deserves it, that love is patient, and that love is kind. Locus seems like both of those.

In his dreams, he sees Felix, red-lipped and blue-skinned. His eyelids shoot upwards, and suddenly he is staring at the ceiling, again. He has many hours before the morning starts, so he fantasizes about dying, over and over again. Drowning like the Meta did in its last moment, or having a knife in between his ribs, or being shot from behind.

Locus’ hand is still on his body, out of shape now from too many injuries, like a broken clay figure. He wants so badly to push him away, to turn on his side and make it fall off, but he knows that it would send the wrong message.

As the night passes, he thinks of inhaling water, of drinking poison, of the multiple, acute and exquisite pain that could possibly happen to him.

It brings him some sort of comfort.

 

 


	2. Felix / Scherzo

  1. Felix / _Scherzo_




Where I am is a mystery. One thing is for sure, though – it's not where _you_ are.

You see, the problem with perspectives is that it's so _trite_. I mean, come _on_. You look through the eyes of one individual. One fucking person in about millions and maybe billions of people, and that's all you see. Isn't that pathetic?

Now, listen to me. I'd tell you to look into my eyes if I still had a body, but it's cold, dead now, somewhere in the frozen sea of a planet. Floating, decomposing. How would I know what's happened to it? Of course you'd have to listen carefully, because I'm only saying it once.

When you don't have a body, you can see through _everybody's_ eyes.

What a riot, am I right?

Felix, a joker even in death. So charming, so charismatic.

Seriously, though. Because I'm not limited to a body, I'm now infinite.

What is it like to be infinite? Oh, don't worry, I'll tell you in due time.

Now, listen to this.

Right now, at this time, my ex – this word may be misleading, but it's _true_ – is banging my ex-partner. I don't know how he manages to make him cum, because he's just so... unadventurous. But he does.

(Alright, I know. It's the simulation of the glans. And there's a little something else to it as well. I'll tell you later.)

Now, here's the secret. Two of them are thinking entirely different things. When I say I've got both of them figured out in life, boy, was I wrong. Even though I would have liked nothing better than to stab Wash right between his ribs for simply being in my way at some point, he never really wanted to kill me. Couldn't bear to do it, not with his own two hands, anyway. What a fool, won't you say?

I mean, he knew what I was, knew I'd lied to him, knew everything I was about to do, because, _see_ , I just happen to have _that_ one weakness: _I talk too much._

Peering into his brain right now, though – looking through the cobwebs in his head and dusting them off with my non-literal fingers – _that's_ a sight for the ages, I'll tell you.

You think I was fucked up? That's okay.

The old me, he's dead now. Gone. There's nothing to pity. Shoo, get on with your life. I know your type.

The old me, I would have laughed at you and have you eating out of my hands, that's what. You'd be robbed blind and you won't even know what hit you. It's strange, isn't it? How knowing everything never changes my contempt for people. Only I don't care to lie about it anymore, having no motivations to do so.

Anyway, isn't love so strange? So stupid? Like it doesn't even exist. And suddenly you're ready to forgive anything the person does.

You know how they did research on restorative justice – also known as reparations or what's that called... redemption – and they said, all social species exhibit some sort of forgiveness. Except cats.

That used to be Wash, I think. I can see it right in his mind. All those years of pain, and suffering, crystalised into a hard little geode, only to be cracked open by his newfound family.

The past me, I think, wouldn't have understood it, either. I've had _many_ chances. Locus and Siris were one of them. I didn't take them, because frankly, there was only one person that I could love, and that was _me_. Nobody's love could have touched me, because I was only in love with myself.

That's because _I'm_ not Wash. _Duh!_

Locus. He did love me. He loved me in a different way than Wash did – that's because we'd seen so much of each other. We'd been together for years, when I wandered, against his will, and when I broke, and when he got broken and I simply made use of what I could.

Hey, you know what that say – all is fair in love and war.

I hadn't understood it at that time, because I was always scared. You see, survival of the fittest means that only one person can be at the top. And me, I wouldn't stand a chance against Locus, alright? He's got a certain will to live. A drive to survive. Even when he's most broken, he's formidable.

Kinda like Wash, actually, only Wash wouldn't have stood a chance against me and Locus combined. I'm pretty sure even alone, I could probably have shank him in the back so easily. At least, that was the plan.

When you think about it forreal, though, love is such a strange motive. So different, in all of their forms.

The strangest thing about love, really, is that you can't really name it. You can't tell what it is, because you can't prove that it exists. You can only experience it. I have never experienced it for certain, not while I was alive, not the way these two have.

But now, I have. Kind of. That's one advantage of being omniscient, of knowing everything – you get to live through others' eyes, vicariously.

You watch them slowly die. When enough time passes, _everyone_ has a mortality rate of zero. But enough about that sad, sordid shit. I get to also see them in their vulnerable moments, the way they rock their bodies against each other. I get to look through their eyes, and do what I've never been able to when I was alive: Fuck and be fucked, at the same time.

See, with sex, there's always a certain rapture. Looking down through Wash's eyes at his own body, and looking from Locus' perspective – those are two entirely two different things, but so goddamn mesmerizing. Wash has this certain melancholy inside his head that always makes sex such a big deal, too. It's like he's dying, slowly, and he's aware of that one big moment during orgasm, when his mind shuts everything out and then he kinda just... disappears.

Then he reappears, again – his consciousness, that is, to the harsh realities of the body, to the languid form of having become something else after the act.

It's the same for Locus, too, in a way. There is change in sex. When Locus cums inside Wash, both of them are transformed in that one moment into something greater than themselves. There is something here, not because there is anything sacred in this act of love, but because the living are always only stuck in their own body, separate from others, forever alone.

I don't envy them. I mean, seriously? Spice it up already. For every single week, at the same time, they've been doing it the same way. How _boring_ is that?

Both of them miss it, too. The way only _I_ could make them feel, while I was alive.

I'd always thought it was just a kink, you know. Cumming inside, being cummed in.

I loved the way Wash's ass looked when I was finished with it; so round, so soft, and so cute. It's impossible to describe how cute it was, with his legs lifted up for me and me alone, and him looking up at me with those impossibly vulnerable eyes, wanting me to take him right there. Sweet, sweet Washy.

And then, I would always, always – I would always make him stay in place for a bit, make him spread his legs and reach down between his buttocks, to take a look. There's always some satisfaction – and in those days I always took satisfaction in a nice job that was just so fucking _easy_ – in seeing cum drip down from that tight, tight little hole.

…

I thought, at that time, that it was just a kink, nothing more to it. Maybe I was marking him as mine, or maybe I was just “breeding” him. (That's silly, doing the impossible.)

Wash said he won't let just anybody do it. He didn't even know it, but this was kinda half a lie. To him, of course, it was the truth, because he didn't trust people enough to hop in bed with them, much less let them do as they like to his sweet little ass. My having jumped in front of bullets for him kinda helped, and he did like me, so that was, in all fairness, a truth.

But, man. It was also such a lie. He lets everybody whom he's ever done it with cum inside him.

He loves it, you know, though he won't ever think about it, not if he can help it.

People are always in the process of becoming. Time before and time after – that's just an illusion.

He'll learn one day, that the pain he's feeling now, from Locus' big cock, the wordless refusal to use “too much” lube on his part so that he could feel Locus more strongly so that pain and cum both could somehow cleanse him from his sins – that tiny little drop of blood that stains Locus' cock afterwards, mixed with cum – that, too, is just an illusion.

 

 


	3. Locus / Largo

  1. Locus / _Largo_




 

When the world was made, the first word was Love.

It was out of this harmony that you were born, Locus, and while you reject it time and time again, you seem unable to escape fate's repeated revolutions.

You were not always like this. At one point, you'd repressed all your humanity. Of course, you had your reasons for your obsession with Agent Washington, then, and those were different reasons from your attachment to him, now.

Now, you finally hold the object of obsession in your hands. He looks at you, smiles at you, and touches your face.

Every touch of his feels like it burns, in a good way. He's calm and collected, his face expressionless and impassive most of the time. When he smiles, though, it's as if the sun has emerged from behind the winter sky, warm and radiant. You want to watch him smile forever.

Love makes a fool of everyone. You hadn't been in love with him at that time; obsession is not love. You would have given everything to have had him by your side, it is true. That was why you had, over and over again, tried to hint at it, to tell him to leave those “meaningless people and meaningless things”, to join you and Felix, the only “worthy” ones. He never bought that. You suspect that, if he had, you wouldn't have fallen for him – really fallen for him – the way you do now.

You know that he doesn't love you, even though he touches you. You were careful, at first, not to be a creep, the way you must have seemed to him the first time you talked to him. Like a lover-to-be in a folklore, he softened, gradually, to the way your gentle and quiet expressions of love.

You thought, for a while, that as a monster, you didn't deserve love, or to be loved, so you ran. Washington was not the sort of person that gave up on you; you were neither friends nor lovers, and far more than acquaintances. Ex-enemies, who had come to know each other better than anything else in the world. He was like the right hand to your left.

When he accepted you, so, too, did the Reds and Blues. They were the closest thing that you could call friends for ages, besides Siris, and even Felix.

Felix was more like a lover to you, in the way a heartless knave seduces a widow for her inheritance. You were absolutely and utterly devoted to him, and remained so even when you changed, for the worse.

  
Agent Washington has made it clear, since day one, that you were not lovers. When you first kissed under the blessings of the full moon, his lips were pressed tight together, though his eyes were closed. You withdrew, and he looked at you, his intelligent eyes sharp in its judgment.

“We should talk about this, Locus, before we do anything.” He said, voice even and reasonable. His body language seemed reassuring, and not threatening. You swallowed, knowing that you could very well be rejected, and yet you refused to run.

You were far too old for that. Running. You had spent far too long running away from yourself. Why run again? You had run out of energy to run.

“I understand. Would you like to do it now?”

“Yes. Now's fine.” He looked around, to see if anybody was watching. Privacy. “I would like to know: What was Felix to you?”

You hesitate. Suddenly, you were not so sure of what to say. “...I loved him, but not anymore.”

You wonder why that is important to him, when he tells you that he used to be involved with Felix. He put it in such a way that made it sound as if there was nothing more to it, that there was just a brief fling, but you knew, because of the gravity of his voice. Because he would not have talked about it, if it wasn't important.

“I am ready to move on, Washington.”

It is true. Many years have passed, and the bond between you and Washington was forged out of a solid foundation, the way you had come to bond with Felix, at one point in time.

Felix taught you that loving somebody didn't always mean that they would love you back.

It hurt, at that time, but when you look at Washington, it hurts no more.

You just want him to be happy.

 

Your second kiss was initiated by Washington. You assumed that it was because you were there, and he was lonely. You understand that he can never get over Felix, because in many ways, he is a lot like you. The difference is, you take in memories, and you analyse them years after, choosing to devote yourself to what makes you happy, now, as a person. You want to repent, to compensate, somehow... You had seen how prisoners were treated, wasting away in some cells on a dilapidated ship on the far reaches of the empire.

You knew that you couldn't ever bring back the dead.

Their ghosts always haunted you, alongside Felix's.

You hold your rosary, and you say the prayers. Every word that you say might as well have been, “Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. I'm sorry.”

You traverse the universe, doing good, stopping only to protect the Reds and Blues – and Agent Washington – to the best of your ability.

 

Washington, on the other hand, has very strong emotions attached to his memories.

You had realised long ago, when, one evening, he stood on the ceiling of an abandoned military base and looked at the sky, eyes sparkling. You saw, then, what animated him as he spoke of a cheerful little scene at a particularly difficult time of your life. It did not sound like a good event to you, but he seemed to be genuinely fond of the memory, so you behold him with a bizarre look on your face.

You remember clearly that this was one of the moments when you had reaffirmed your love for him, and your desire to travel with him throughout the universe only strengthened.

You knew then, that this time around, you could change things for real, because you had worked so hard to become a better person, and because, with him around, you would never forget who you were.

 

You remember taking Felix – really taking him, as he goaded you into being far rougher than you would have been otherwise. It was just a game to him, he explained, and you wanted to keep him by your side, so you played along.

It didn't excuse anything, but, performing all of that felt as if it was eroding something from within; you more easily forgot the beauty and goodness that could exist in the world. It was just sex for Felix, and he – he would have been everything to you.

 

When the universe was made, it was from a single breath. The same breath that you take in, so immersed in Agent Washington's presence, as you kiss him, and embrace him, and take him, feeling as if you are taken by him.

You always hold the souls you've hurt in your mind out of respect and guilt, and you will pay for it for as long as you live.

You looked into Agent Washington's sad eyes, having pulled out of him, and you hold him, so that you may comfort him. He turns, sees you, and relaxes.

He understands that you understand, and seems to take solace in this.

Like a fool, you will be there for him should he take the leap.

 

 


	4. Felix / Allegro non Troppo

iv. Felix / _Allegro non Troppo_

I was weaker because I didn't understand love the way I do now.

I didn't understand that – see, I'd even gotten the advantage of probing into Spencer's bald head – it was a shitty misreading of Darwinian natural selection. I mean, at that point, it made sense to me, a'right? The Aliens seemed to prove that. Our miraculous survival, Locus and I – that must've meant something, right?

I was the first to break down, to be honest. Locus made it about him – blah blah don't you dare die blah blah blah – and then... What can I say? I just kinda went along. 'Cause frankly, he scares me with his crazy eyes.

See, when you tell somebody that they've got to live, their lives are now your responsibility, alright? That's because you're taking away their autonomy, their choice. Death should be about free will. Kill or be killed – why not kill yourself?

But Locus, that asshole, made me live and kept me alive. It's like having this firebird around you – their wings must be clipped at all times because otherwise it'll just burn you to death. It wasn't my fault I had to deceive Locus. It's his fault for being so goddamn strong.

Oh well.

Speaking of which...

See, now, Locus gets off because he's in love. That's not so hard to understand. He feels as if his hands are burning when he touches Wash's pretty freckly skin. And I have to say, from experience when I was alive, that's a damn nice body, too. The three of us were pretty fucking hot. Me, now, not so much, half-eaten away by alien fish. They're gonna get old too, so I guess in about a decade's time they won't be jerkoff material.

“Rat face”? Not funny, dude.

And Wash... He gets off because he's thinking of me. It's kind of sweet, in a way, hearing him call out my name. I'd jerk off to that if I had a body.

But, oh? What's in a name, but so on and so forth?

– Where I am, words don't matter.

To be honest, words shouldn't matter between them, either. Locus doesn't touch him like I touched Wash. My touch was poisonous, my kisses venomous. I would have devoured him and hurt him without a second thought, if I could get away with it. I suspect that's why Locus never let me top, too, because he knew. I mean, you've got to know on some level what you're doing when you come near me, alright? Anybody who doesn't is really just deluding his or herself.

Hush now, I'm not unreliable. You're the one that's unreliable. I could make a point clearer than a TV screen the size of a billboard, and people'd miss it. That's on them, for being morons. That's on Locus, and Wash, too. I was just doing what it takes to survive, man.

See? I'm not unreliable. I'm just me. Take some responsibility, won't you, huh?

Wash now, he's lying there. He thinks he's depressed because I'm dead and gone, but oh, no. He's wrong. He wants to die because he's always been messed up right here, in the head. As far as I can see, he's been wanting to die since he was a kid. He only lives 'cause others need him.

You could blame it on everything under the sun, and of course those things don't help, but it just happens. Life just happens. Some people die at childhood because of heart deformities. Me, I didn't feel love, affection, or anything close to empathy. I had it lucky, because now that I know what this empathy thing is? It's a son of a bitch, knowing how stupid and contradictory people are and how goddamn small their worlds are, and caring regardless. Fuck that!

...Meh.

Locus, well, he's always been sad.

He's not doing so well, either, but in a way, he's also better than he's ever been. He's always the sort who would want to live, because he'd want to be a good person. A good little boy, little Samuel.

Hah!

Well, good luck getting Wash to call you that, Locs.

Seriously, I called him that once. “What'd you think you're gonna do to me, little Sammy?” “Don't call me that.” “Oh come on Sammy boy, I need it harder, so just fuck me up like your father figure did to you, huh?” “Shut... up–!”

It made him harder than ever, that kinky motherfucker. He choked me till I almost blacked out, but it was fucking worth it. Tried again, but it'd lost its punch, and he ignored me.

Anyhow, the point is, everyone's got their Achilles' heels. Sometimes you can tell because it turns them off. The real fun, of course, is when it gets them going real hard. Like with Locus.

...Which is why, honestly, I think it works for them, right now. There's always something erotic about transgressions, about wanting what you shouldn't have.

In Wash's case, it's me.

In Locus' case, it's love.

I can see myself in Wash's mind, so concrete and pretty, it's like I was Narcissus drowned in a pool. If he thinks of me that way, then who am I to disagree? He wants to be with me, to be one with me... As for Locus, it's the softness that Wash inspires in him, a sort of madness that inspires the gentle biting of his skin, the calculated tweaking of his nips.

Locus knows what he's doing, he's making love like a machine, a tried and true way. You know what they say about old habits.

Never failed to make me cum, never will fail to make Wash cum.

Still, it's gotta be boring, though, doing the same thing every week at the same time. But they like it. To them, it's this little ritual, this little performance. An act of mourning, Wash for living, Locus for his actions.

Wash spreads his legs, pushes down against Locus' abs, and Locus holds him down by his thighs. Hilt-deep, bruisingly deep. Wash shudders – he keeps shuddering, helpless and moaning, and Locus–

God, it's so hot when he comes inside him, when he takes it all in. Locus' dick and Wash's ass, that's really all I'd ever want anyway, in this eternity.

Do you pity me because I'm dead and don't have a body? Pfft.

Nah, I don't really feel sad about it. Be glad I don't have one. Besides, I get to feel their orgasms. It's so hot, I could die for this, if I'm not already dead. Heh.

Of course, the old me, I'd have wanted revenge. Maybe try to get Locus to stay with me because boy, if there's anybody I really didn't want to become an enemy of, it was Locus. But that's all the past now.

Besides, this is what I was meant to be. You can't change it now, and honestly, having Locus, or Wash, or anybody, really, die for me would do shit-all for me now.

I'm pure consciousness, in a way. You could even say I'm like a God: Omniscient, omnipresent, et cetera et cetera.

Jesus Christ!

I am fucking awesome––!

 

 

 

**Afterword**

Partly inspired by how Shostakovich structured Symphony No.5 (this isn't comparable to it at all, don't get me wrong), the original was just part I. The whole idea of experimenting with prose just kinda took a second seat once I figured out what I wanted to do with this thing. #RedemptionArcForLocus2k17

Of course it's also influenced by Gerard Genette, John Burnside, Maynard James Keenan... Etc.

To those that actually read and kudos, all 1.25 of you: Let me know what you think!

 


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